


Hello, I'm Yours

by giddytf2



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Geralt Works on a Horse Farm, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Humor, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier In Thigh High Boots, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, OTP Feels, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Phone Sex, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), everyone ships it, jaskier has a band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: He opened the chat.And sucked in a sharp, hot breath.The photo clearly showed lean, long legs in a pair of thigh high boots. Dark red, leather ones. Front-laced, with short belts and metal buckles. The person had posed in such a way that their groin was obscured from view. But Geralt had a perfect view of ample, pale buttocks on navy blue sheets. Firm, rounded buttocks that would fit just right in his large hands.________________________Geralt receives a chat message from an unknown number, with a sultry photo of lean, pale legs in thigh-high boots. Turned on, he plays along. He's utterly enamored when he receives more photos--of a beautiful, blue-eyed, dark-haired man in said boots and nothing else.(Originally a Twitter fic at@giddytf2, edited and reformatted for easier reading here on AO3.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 531





	Hello, I'm Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah, let's have some modern!AU phone sex starring horse carer!Geralt and modern bard!Jaskier. 🤩

The generic bell chime from Geralt's phone snapped him out of his television-induced trance. On the screen, a lion stalked a lone wildebeest, hiding behind tall grass swaying in the wind.

It was 11:10 p.m. He was in black sweatpants, lounging on his leather sofa.

He blinked.

Who by Kreve was messaging him at this time of the night?

With a grunt and a frown, he reached for his phone he'd left on the side table to his right. Eh, it was probably a wrong number. A message not meant for him.

He grunted louder at the unknown number on the screen.

He was very particular in sharing this number: only the most trusted people had it, and all of them knew better than to contact him this late at night, unless it was an emergency.

So who was _this?_

Of all the things, the person's avatar was of a string musical instrument. Geralt couldn't recognize it even after he clicked on the avatar to view the full photo. It looked like a guitar but wasn't a guitar.

He blinked again.

Was this person a musician?

All they sent was an image. No text. He had to click on the chat to see it.

He narrowed his eyes. His thumb hovered over the unread chat. He could delete it, and maintain the person's privacy. But what if the person kept messaging, thinking they were being ignored? What if the message was important? Life-changing?

He should at the very least reply to say they made a mistake.

He opened the chat.

And sucked in a sharp, hot breath.

The photo clearly showed lean, long legs in a pair of thigh high boots. Dark red, leather ones. Front-laced, with short belts and metal buckles. The person had posed in such a way that their groin was obscured from view. But Geralt had a perfect view of ample, pale buttocks on navy blue sheets. Firm, rounded buttocks that would fit just right in his large hands.

He sucked in another hot breath, one that scorched him inside all the way down to his clenching belly, his twitching cock.

He hummed. He couldn't tell due to the soft lighting if the person was a woman or man. That didn't matter to him—he was attracted either way, and what he could see of the person in the photo was already beautiful.

The person was online.

Waiting for his response.

What should he say?

He bit his lower lip. Shifted on the sofa. Spread his thighs. The leather creaked under his bulk.

He should tell them he was sorry, that they got the wrong number, that he hoped they found the lucky bastard the photo was meant for.

His trembling thumb hovered over the screen.

His trembling thumb moved independently of his dazed brain.

He only realized what he'd typed after he pressed the button to send it: _You're so beautiful_. He stared at the three words, aghast. The person had already read them. It was too late to delete.

The person was replying.

 _wait til you see the rest_ 😙

Geralt stared even harder at those words. At the flying kiss thing.

There were _more_ photos on the way?

He calmly set his phone on the side table. He stared forward at the TV, his hands in fists on his tense thighs.

The lion was about to pounce.

He prided himself on not jumping at the first bell chime, or the second. He stared on at the TV while three more chimes echoed around the living room.

He breathed, slow and steady.

He was calm. He was fine. Everything was fine.

He just had to avoid looking at those photos.

He just had to send a reply of apology, and—delete those photos. And never speak to this beautiful person again.

He could do this.

He could.

He picked up his phone. Unlocked it. Opened the chat.

"Fuck," he rasped, his eyes wide, his cock hardening fast in his sweatpants.

There was no doubt now the person was a man. The first photo showed the man up to the waist—and it was obvious he wasn't wearing anything other than the boots. Dark curls framed an average-sized, pleasing cock being held in a long-fingered, slender hand.

A musician's hand.

The second and third photos made Geralt salivate: they revealed the man up to the neck. The lighting was much brighter. The man was lying back on the bed, running fingers through the trail of hair flowing up a flat belly to a hirsute chest.

Geralt wanted to bury his face in it.

He wanted to suck on those pink, jutting nipples. Lave his way down that thick trail of hair to that delectable cock and swallow it down. Feel those lean yet strong thighs clamp around his head, and that dark red leather slide against his skin.

He licked his lips.

Scrolled down.

The last two photos revealed the man's face in all its glory. Geralt stared for eons at the second last one: the man was gazing up at the camera with heavy-lidded eyes, sucking on two of his own fingers between dark pink, plump lips. Large blue eyes twinkled with mischief at him.

But it was the last photo that made something in his chest thunder with heat and an odd sort of pain: a close-up of the man's truly beautiful face, gazing at him with warm, kohl-lined eyes, and a small, sweet smile.

As if the man was happy to see him.

As if the man loved him.

But the man didn't.

Of course the man didn't. How could he, when he didn't know Geralt?

Geralt swallowed hard. Clenched his hand around his phone.

The man had no idea he was looking at these photos. No idea what a—a _freak_ he was, with his weird eyes and hair, and his scars.

But—he couldn't just ignore the man now. It wasn't enough to just apologize either.

He had to—reciprocate.

Yeah, at the very least, he could send a photo or two of himself, then apologize. Then it would be fair.

Then the man would see how ugly he was, and stop chatting.

Then everything would go back to normal. Back to watching TV. Falling asleep on the sofa. Waking up alone. Eating breakfast alone. Getting ready for work, where he'll see his beloved chestnut mare. Coming back in the evening, and microwaving dinner, and watching TV again.

Normal.

He stared at the man's ageless face for a little longer. At the man's dark, side-parted hair sweeping down a high forehead. At the fine crow's feet adorning the corners of those blue eyes. At those lush lips he yearned to kiss.

He let out a ragged sigh.

Opened his camera app.

He averted his face from his phone even as he glanced at the screen from the corner of his eyes. He aimed the camera so it only captured him from the neck down.

He glanced down at himself. At his sweatpants.

He—he should show his cock too, right? That was only fair, wasn't it?

He bit his lip. Gripped his phone in his right hand. Used his left to push his sweatpants down to mid-thigh after some wriggling.

Gods, he was rock-hard.

He hadn't gotten this hard since—he couldn't remember. He couldn't even remember the last time he had a one night stand.

He aimed the camera at his bulky, scarred body again. He bit his lip harder. Grasped his cock with his free hand, near its base so its head leaking pre-come was visible.

A forceful frisson of _something_ zigzagged down his spine.

He'd never photographed his own body before.

Never photographed it for someone else before.

What if—what if this beautiful man _didn't_ find him ugly? What if this beautiful, sweet-faced man found his body acceptable, and perhaps, one day, found him acceptable as a friend too?

He wished it could be true.

He wished.

He snapped three photos in succession, all from the neck down. He wasn't sure what to feel about his long, white hair showing in the pics. Hopefully his cock was enough of a distraction from it, and from the scars littering his body and limbs. He knew it was bigger than average. Perhaps it would also appease the man, once Geralt explained the situation and the man inevitably got angry.

He shut his eyes. Let out a heavy sigh.

He ignored the panic brewing in him. Sent all the photos via the chat. Instantly locked his phone and set it on the side table.

Giraffes were ambling across the savanna on the TV screen. It was very interesting to watch them. Very, very interesting.

He tugged up his sweatpants and ignored his erection, his face burning. He gripped his knees. Stared at the TV screen.

Phone? What phone? What was a phone—

Something in his throbbing chest rocketed up into his throat at the bell chime from his phone. It stayed there, choking him, as numerous more chimes followed suit.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Dug his fingers into his skin.

Fuck, the man must be so _angry_ with him right now.

He drew in a deep breath. Let it out as a gust of air. He waited until silence reigned again. He opened his eyes. Slowly picked up his phone. Stared at the high number of messages the man had sent him.

He opened the chat.

He stared at the very first message, lips tight.

_UR NOT SIMONXBOI1988!!!!_

Geralt's brow furrowed in bafflement. Well, the man was right, but—what sort of name was _that?_

He squinted at the following messages.

_OMG_

_OOoommmMMMGGG_

_WHO ARE YOUUUU_

_Did the gods finally listen to me_

_What did I DO RIGHT_

_TALK TO ME U GORGEOUS GOD_

Geralt stared at the phone screen. He blinked. He glanced up at the TV, and stared for a few seconds at a giraffe licking leaves into its mouth. Then he stared down at his phone again.

Did—did the man call him a _gorgeous god?_

Reluctantly, he scrolled up to his own photos. He frowned at them. At his own body. It was—nothing special. Yes, he did a great deal of physical labor at the horse farm, but there were many other men there who did similar work and—

Ah. Of course.

The photos only showed his body.

None of them showed his face.

None of them showed his peculiar amber eyes or his totally white hair that had caused people to recoil from him in the past. As if they were afraid his physical traits were signs of contagious illness.

Well, then.

He knew what he had to do next.

A single photo should do it.

He couldn't bear to look at the phone screen, at his face displayed on it. The cleft in his chin seemed so conspicuous.

He turned his head so he gazed past the phone.

He snapped the photo, then sent it before he changed his mind.

He locked his phone. Lowered it to his lap.

A minute passed. Then another. Then another, and no bell chime sounded from his phone.

He sagged back against the sofa, his shoulders slumping, his chest aching. His phone was a hefty weight upon his thigh.

Why should he feel disappointed? It was stupid to feel that at all. This was exactly what he expected, wasn't it? This was exactly what had happened before, so many times, when he'd been stupid enough to wish _and_ hope that someone would love him as he was—

A cacophony of ringing and buzzing exploded from his phone.

He jolted with shock.

He grabbed his phone before it flew off his thigh and crashed on the floor. He held it close to his bare chest.

It was—vibrating. It was ringing, on and on.

With parted lips, he gaped down at its flashing screen.

It was ringing because—the man was _calling him_.

Right now.

He held the ringing, vibrating device to his chest again.

Would it be a bad thing if he threw his phone out the window into the bushes? That was a logical move, wasn't it?

He held the phone to his chest that vibrated with it.

It kept on ringing.

He stared sightlessly at the TV.

The hippopotamus on the wide screen gave him no answer to his dilemma. But then—he already knew what the answer was.

His heart always was wiser than his head, when it came to the truly important matters in life.

He breathed.

He accepted the call with the swipe of a finger.

Slowly, very slowly, he raised the phone to his ear. He could hear someone breathing softly on the other end.

"Hello?" Geralt murmured. When he received no reply, he asked, "Are you there?"

He heard the man's breaths stutter, as if in surprise. He bit his lower lip and waited.

Eleven seconds of a tense yet thrill-laden hush ticked by. He felt every second like a searing caress across his bare shoulders and down his straight spine.

"Oh. My. Gods."

It was Geralt's turn for his breath to stutter with surprise. With pleasure.

The man's voice was—divine.

It was a low, mellifluous voice. A voice of someone who could turn heads, arrest people in their steps simply by opening his mouth and singing his heart out.

It was also a voice that hadn't stopped talking since uttering those three words.

"It's not fair. It's just not fair—"

"Uhm—"

"It just isn't enough that you have the body of a god, is it? You had to have the _face_ of a god too!"

"Uh—"

"You'd think the gods would pity my heart after that, but _noooo_ , you had to _speak!_ With _that_ voice!"

"I'm—"

"A voice like the very _embodiment of SEX!_ "

Geralt's jaw dropped. His brain was still reeling from the fact that he was _talking_ to the most beautiful man he'd ever seen. He didn't know where to begin processing the fact that the same man thought he looked _and_ sounded like a _god_.

Was it possible the man was high?

"Are—" Geralt cleared his throat. "Are you—high on something?"

He heard the rustle of cloth. The squeak of smooth leather. A long, dramatic sigh that tingled through his extremities.

"I'm _so_ high on you right now, love."

Something stubborn with hope throbbed inside his chest. He knew better than to take a term of endearment like that seriously. He knew that. But to hear anyone call him that, much less this beautiful man with an angel's voice—he _ached_ from that one word.

His own mother had never said it to him. All she gave him was his name.

His throat bobbed with a painful swallow.

"Geralt," he rasped. "My name is Geralt."

He heard the man inhale, as if breathing his name deep into that lean, pale body. Infusing its cells with it.

He yearned to breathe in the air that billowed from the man's lungs and mouth.

"Jaskier," the man rasped in return. "But you can call me whatever pleases you."

Geralt shut his eyes. He sagged against the sofa again, his cock hot and harder than it ever was in his sweatpants.

"Whatever you want pleases me," he said, and he meant it.

The ensuing hush thrummed.

"Oh." Jaskier moaned, and the sensual sound rolled through Geralt like an ocean wave. "Oh, I _love_ you, you gorgeous garroter."

Geralt's eyes prickled behind their lids. He focused on the strange choice of word, his lips quirked up.

"Garroter?"

"Oh, sorry." Jaskier chuckled. "I'm a—" Jaskier paused. Geralt could see in his mind Jaskier rolling those big blue eyes. "Centuries ago, people would have called me a bard. But nowadays, I'm just a songwriter."

Geralt's lips quirked up more.

"Master wordsmith always at work?"

He basked in Jaskier's laugh.

"And you? Gorgeous god on earth, enchanting everyone in your presence?"

His lips curled into a wry smile.

"I work with horses, actually. I take care of them. Clean them. Make sure they're happy and healthy."

He heard more rustling of cloth: perhaps Jaskier turning on the bed.

"Tell me you do all that topless," Jaskier said, voice lower.

Geralt snorted. His smile expanded into a genuine one.

"If it gets hot, yes. Mostly I like to run with them on the field."

"Oh gods."

His smile grew at Jaskier's breathlessness.

"And I like doing _that_ topless."

It was true, although not for the reasons Jaskier must be assuming. He reveled in the freedom of running alongside Roach and the other horses that didn't care what he looked like, that accepted him into their herd.

" _Oh, gods._ You're trying to kill me with lust, aren't you?"

Geralt peeled his eyes open. He slid his left hand down his rippled belly, down the trail of grey hair. Slipped it under his sweatpants' elastic waistband.

"I'm touching myself," he growled. "Okay?"

He would stop the moment Jaskier said no. There was no question about that.

Jaskier didn't say no. Jaskier released a drawn-out moan that sped up Geralt's breathing, sent his blood surging through his veins, his hammering heart.

"Oh, my love, I've been _so hard_ for you since I saw your first photo," Jaskier rasped. "Touch that perfect cock for me."

Geralt closed his eyes, and he could see Jaskier sprawled on those navy sheets, those long legs in dark red leather spread while Jaskier touched himself too. Was Jaskier stroking his own cock? Slipping those slender fingers lower to cup drawn-up bollocks?

Or—lower still?

"Are you stroking yourself too?" Geralt shoved down his sweatpants to the knees. Grasped himself harder, groaning low at the pre-come slicking his length, his hand. "Are you wishing my hand was yours?"

Jaskier let out a high-pitched whine. Geralt heard renewed rustling of cloth.

"Yes. I want—" Jaskier panted softly. Swallowed audibly. "I want your huge cock filling my mouth. My throat."

Geralt's cock jerked hard in his fist. Geralt couldn't restrain his rumbling groan even if he'd tried. By Melitele, this man was going to be—

"Want you _inside_ me."

Geralt pressed his head back on the sofa, his neck arched. He was somehow still holding the phone to his ear while stroking himself hard and fast from hilt to tip. He could feel that coil of pleasure burgeoning in his lower belly, threatening to blast through his taut body.

He panted in tandem with Jaskier. He heard slicking noises. More cloth rustling.

He had to sink his teeth deep into his lip when Jaskier gasped then let out a fractured cry—as if he was being fucked hard and deep.

"Did you—" Geralt gasped for air too. "Are you fucking yourse—"

"No! N-no, you are—" Jaskier cried out again, high and blissful. "You, in me—oh fuck, Geralt!"

Hearing his name from Jaskier in the throes of immense pleasure shot him to the very edge. He had to clamp his hand tight around the base of his fire-hot, rigid cock to not come.

He wanted to listen to Jaskier come first. He wanted to hear his name again from Jaskier's plump, wet lips, while Jaskier fucked himself on a dildo, imagining— _wishing_ it was _him_ instead.

"Say my name, Jaskier," he gasped, quivering, his half-open eyes stinging. "Say it."

Jaskier's breaths quickened. Each one ended in a desperate whine, and Geralt could see, could _feel_ Jaskier thrusting that dildo in and out of such slick, tight heat. Jaskier kicking at the bed with those high heels. Jaskier arching off the bed.

Jaskier, going silent and taut.

Jaskier, still clutching his phone close, still remembering Geralt was there.

"Geralt," the beautiful, sweet dream of a man moaned. "My gorgeous white wolf."

Geralt's orgasm struck him like a towering tsunami. He arched off the sofa, spurting ropes of come all over himself. He wasn't sure what sort of noises he was making, but he could hear Jaskier still panting, encouraging him with soft moans and _yeahs_ and _so good, love_. He saw stars imploding in the vast darkness behind his eyelids. He focused on Jaskier's voice. On Jaskier's gentle tone.

He floated back down onto the sofa. He thrummed like a plucked guitar string from head to toes, his sated body singing a perfect, reverberating note of euphoria.

Jaskier's gratified chuckle was heavenly accompaniment.

"I can still feel you in me, Geralt," Jaskier whispered.

Geralt gazed up at the white ceiling. His breaths were still erratic, but his lips were curled up.

"I can still feel you," Jaskier whispered with awe. "I'm going to keep you in me forever."

Geralt's lips curled up even more. He could feel Jaskier in him too. Deep in his chest. Deep in the soft yet resilient places within him that never stopped wishing, never stopped hoping for better things for him.

"Good," he rasped. "I'm good with forever."

It was true. Forever wasn't enough with someone who saw him in the light, scars and all, and loved him still.

Geralt found great peace in combing Roach's mane.

"He's touring the Continent with his band," he murmured, gently pulling the comb's tines through silky, thick hair. "That's why his room changes all the time in his photos."

Roach turned her head, just enough to gaze at him.

"That night, he had his own room in the inn. I guess he was—" Geralt's lips twisted into an amalgam of a grimace and an amused smile. "Bored. So that's why he was on that—gay dating app."

Roach blinked, dark eyelashes flickering.

"And that _idiot_ gave him a fake number."

He still couldn't believe that had occurred. That someone had been so _stupid_ to lead Jaskier on then deem him _not good enough_.

But the idiot's choice had resulted in Jaskier keying in Geralt's number.

It had resulted in him finding the most beautiful, loving man in the world.

Jaskier.

His friend.

His _boyfriend_.

"He's so silly, Roach. He made this short video just to show me he deleted his account and uninstalled the app." He ignored his aching cheeks, the warmth in them. "And he even wrote a poem and added it to the video."

It was silly. So silly.

The poem went like this:

_Buttercups are yellow,  
Seared steaks are juicy,  
You, my gorgeous fellow,  
Are my toothy smoothie  
Making me goofy woozy.  
You should be the star  
Of every blockbuster movie,  
You're already the czar  
Of the strums of my guitar.  
My grittiest hero by far:  
You._

Like he said, it was so silly. He had no idea how his brain had memorized it on its own and embedded it into its cells.

"I know, it's been just—three weeks." He lowered the comb. Petted Roach's neck while she gazed at him. "But it feels like—I've already known him for decades."

Roach nickered. It was a faint, curious noise. He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.

"Maybe in another life, we did know each other for decades." He let out a huff of quiet laughter. "Maybe we travelled the Continent and had adventures, just him and me and you."

Roach nudged his chest with her head, and his cheeks ached even more. He wasn't sure why they did, but it was a good feeling. That good feeling also seemed to emanate from deep in his chest.

"You'll like him," he said, nuzzling her mane. "He'll like you too. When he comes here to visit you."

The mere thought of finally meeting Jaskier in person swept the ground from beneath his feet, every time. Jaskier's tour was ending in a few days—with the last show happening here in Oxenfurt.

Jaskier lived here too.

Jaskier's apartment was just several blocks away from his. Jaskier had moved there a few months ago, and it brought Geralt a profound joy to know their paths might have crossed sooner or later, even if Jaskier hadn't sent that fateful photo.

He'd never believed in destiny. Never cared for some invisible power to control his life.

But this once, just this once, he wanted to believe it was destiny for him and Jaskier to find each other. To see each other, and find in each other someone who loved every part of the other, the good and bad and all.

"He got so upset yesterday when I joked about his singing."

Roach gazed at him with bright eyes, waiting for him to speak on. He resumed combing her mane.

"He kept belittling his singing. Saying he was 'not that good'. That other singers were better." He shook his head. "So I said, 'Is it like ordering pie and finding it has no filling?'" He snorted, his cheeks aching again. "You should have seen his face. He flailed around so much, and when he pointed his finger at me and told me I needed a _nap_ —"

A chuckle escaped him like a river's burble.

"He was trying so hard not to smile. You can tell from his eyes."

He was so thankful for video calls, although admittedly he'd rejected the idea when Jaskier had first suggested it. The thought of seeing Jaskier's reactions in real time had terrified him.

But he'd reminded himself that Jaskier was now in his life because he hadn't run away. Because he'd reached out for something better, scared as he'd been. Something he'd always deserved, no matter what the rest of the world decided.

So he'd made the first video call. In his bedroom, with only a blanket covering his groin.

Jaskier had stared with saucer-wide eyes. With strawberry-red cheeks. Licking those dark pink, plump lips over and over as if he was a magnificent buffet.

Jaskier's band mates had laughed their arses off at Jaskier hiding in the shower to jerk off in unison with him.

Neither he or Jaskier had any regrets about it.

"I don't know what to wear to the show," he murmured. "Have any fashion tips for me?"

Roach said nothing.

Neither did the other men in the stables with him, who'd been busy with their own errands. Now they were all smiling at him, with Eskel having the widest grin of all.

Geralt squinted at them.

He growled, “What?”

With eyebrows raised, Lambert said, "How about a horse costume?"

Coen, gripping a saddle in meaty hands, said, "A black tutu and boots!"

Letho made an act of peering up and stroking his chin. "A meat dress, seared to juicy perfection."

The other men cracked up at that suggestion.

Geralt glared at them with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. He _knew_ he shouldn't have said a word about Jaskier's poem to these pillocks.

"Fuck off," he snarled, his lips tremoring from an emotion light years away from anger.

The other men simply guffawed. Eskel sauntered to him. He did his best to cling onto his scowl of outrage while he resumed grooming Roach. He really did.

But Eskel, his old friend since childhood, knew him well.

Eskel walked past him, halting long enough to give his shoulder a fond squeeze and say six sincere words to him.

"Good to see you happy, brother."

Eskel didn't wait for a response and left the stables. Geralt continued to brush Roach's flank in an easy hush.

With no one looking at him anymore, it was all right to let yet another radiant smile bloom across his face and bunch his cheeks.

It took Geralt three hours and twelve minutes to choose his outfit for this momentous night. On any other night, for any other occasion, it would have taken him _seconds_.

But tonight was the night he was finally meeting Jaskier in person. The night he would listen to him sing. The night he would hold those slender hands in his large ones. Gaze into those pretty blue eyes, and know their possessor was just an arm's breadth away from him.

Just one forward lean away from being kissed, and kissed, and memorized in every way possible by Geralt's senses.

It was the night he would divide his existence into two grand chapters: before Jaskier, after Jaskier.

He had to wear something worthy, didn't he?

The problem was, his entire wardrobe consisted of black or near-black clothing. He didn't have Jaskier's flamboyant tastes.

He had to take out all his clothes and lay them on his bed to inspect them under the ceiling light. He had far too many black t-shirts. All his trousers were black. Even his underwear were all black. Gods, he should buy a pair in dark grey soon, to ease himself into other colors.

His ultimate choice of outfit turned out to be a navy linen shirt and black trousers with side panels. He couldn't recall where he'd bought them, but they were distinct from the rest of his clothes.

The shirt had a round collar that could be unbuttoned to reveal his collarbones. He could roll up its sleeves to the elbows, and tuck it under the high waist of the trousers. He was a bit annoyed with the trousers' numerous buttons—but the panels had intricate designs that gleamed.

And it fit him like a second skin.

His arse looked, dare he say it, _nice_.

Jaskier would probably appreciate it.

"Okay," he said to himself, after locking the apartment door behind him. "Okay, let's do this."

For a few seconds, he had the very barmy idea of taking Roach to the venue, like some—support animal. Jaskier would never let him live it down.

Jaskier would never let him down.

Jaskier—loved him.

His phone was in his side pocket, which meant Jaskier was one call away.

Jaskier had blushed when he'd asked Geralt in a very roundabout way to come to the show. As if he'd thought he wouldn't go.

Jaskier really loved him.

"Okay," he whispered to himself, sitting behind the steering wheel of his car, turning the key.

His cheeks were aching again.

The hours leading up to the show were a blur to Geralt. The venue was a very popular tavern in the city center, so he'd arrived early to grab a good seat.

Of course, people stared at him as he walked to the bar to order his drink and meal. He ignored them—but to his own surprise, the staring didn't bother him as much tonight.

Did they stare, even gawk, at him because they thought his white hair and amber eyes were freakish?

Or did they stare because, like Jaskier, they found him—attractive?

He was certain some of them were startled by his appearance. But what if he'd been wrong all this time about _everyone_ being disgusted by him?

What if it'd never, ever mattered what anyone else thought of him?

Jaskier had looked so shocked during one of their video calls, when he'd shared his past experiences of being harassed. Spat on. Driven away from rural areas, once with pitchforks.

For Jaskier, that had been abuse. For him, it'd been life as usual.

But it didn't have to be again.

Here he was, at the start of the next grand chapter of his existence—no longer the man he'd been before knowing Jaskier.

Here he was, sitting alone in this cozy corner, with a fantastic view of the stage, fresh ale in hand.

Here he was, watching his beloved strut into view.

The tavern was packed from one end to the other. The jubilant screaming of the clapping crowd should have deafened Geralt—and perhaps it did, for he could only hear his own pounding heartbeat. In his chest. In his throat, where his heart had rocketed up into it, choking him.

Jaskier wasn't beautiful: it was too _tiny_ a word to encompass everything Jaskier was as he twirled the microphone stand and dominated the stage in those very dark red, thigh high boots that featured so prominently in Geralt's fantasies. Jaskier was in all black otherwise.

Geralt had to tell himself to breathe at the sight of Jaskier's hirsute chest and belly bared by a plunging neckline. Only Jaskier could have pulled off the glittery, extreme puffy sleeves that wrapped tight around lean forearms.

Only Jaskier would have dared wear knicker shorts.

Jaskier drew the microphone close to those plump lips coated in bright red lipstick.

"Hello again, Oxenfurt,” he rasped, his kohl-lined eyes at half-mast, eyelashes heavy and long with mascara.

He blew kisses at the crowd cheering even louder. Laughed at shrieked marriage proposals.

Geralt's heart was still thundering in his throat. He sat in silence in his isolated corner, staring helplessly at the beautiful god being worshipped by all before him.

Jaskier had his pick of _anyone_ from this crowd of pretty, young people.

They were all desperate for him. They would do anything for him, just for him to return their gazes of adoration. For him to find them, to _see_ them—and love them, as they were, as they'd been, as who they would be.

Jaskier had his pick of anyone from this crowd, this world.

And Jaskier chose _him_.

Jaskier was scanning the crowd as he spoke again into the microphone. It was skillfully surreptitious: if Geralt hadn't honed his eyes on Jaskier's face, he wouldn't have noticed. Jaskier was searching for something. Searching for someone—

Geralt sat up. He swallowed hard.

He restrained himself from raising and waving his arm. What if Jaskier didn't want him to draw attention to himself? Didn't want the public to know about their relationship?

He stared on at his beautiful, brilliant god on earth, enchanting everyone in his spectacular presence.

When their eyes met at last across the spacious tavern, Geralt didn't hear a sound. The surrounding crowd faded away. The golden light illumining Jaskier radiated into a dazzling halo behind him.

Somehow, Jaskier's blue eyes were brighter. They were stars guiding Geralt to him.

Jaskier's wide smile tremored, in surprise, in elation. It transfigured into a smile that Geralt had only seen in their video calls, on his phone screen. A smile that crinkled and lit those big blues like supernovas, that made the sun a mere spark.

A smile that was for him alone.

He didn't know what showed on his face, in his own crinkled eyes. He stared on and on, and he did not go blind, and he saw how overjoyed Jaskier was to see him in return.

It was good to be in the light. It was good to remember the warmth, and how it felt upon him, within him.

It was good to be alive again.

"There were rumors going around that we were going to break up!" Jaskier whipped up the crowd like a pro, swaggering across the stage while people booed at said rumors. "You know what I think about that?!"

The crowd began cheering loudly once more.

Jaskier swiveled around and bent forward, flaunting those splendid buttocks. He reached back and pointed a forefinger at them.

"I think those tossers were talking out of _here!_ "

The crowd exploded into wild applause, clapping and whistling. The fanfare drowned Geralt's laugh.

Jaskier pirouetted to face the stoked crowd, striking a graceful pose with one arm up. He caught Geralt's gaze again.

"Oh no," Jaskier said into the microphone, staring into his amber eyes with a victor's smile, "we're staying together, love. Forever."

Geralt's cheeks ached so.

They continued to ache while Jaskier burst into song, a lively one that hooked the audience into singing along. Geralt didn't know the lyrics, but he wasn't here to sing: he was here to claim something beautiful, something eternal. Something he would keep inside him forever.

Something that showed him he was beautiful too.

He enjoyed every song, but his favorite was the last one. Jaskier had composed it a week ago, a haunting yet hope-filled song—about a white wolf. A wolf climbing to a mountain's summit, and watching the sun rise with its mate.

Jaskier gazed into his eyes throughout the song. He had to blink once, twice, when he remembered that wolves—loyal, stalwart—mated for life.

While the previous songs were for everyone, this one was for him and Jaskier. This one, he would always request Jaskier to sing for him.

He would never tire of listening to Jaskier sing about them, in the decades to come.

He sat silent in his corner in the aftermath, basking in his memory of the song while Jaskier and his band mates mingled with the lingering crowd. He watched Jaskier talk and smile and laugh. He watched Jaskier hug smitten fans, looming over many of them in those six-inch heels.

And every few minutes, Jaskier would scan the room, searching for him. Find him exactly where he was, and give him that dazzling smile that was for him alone.

He'd finished his ale ages ago.

He was thirsty for something much, much more delicious now.

His whole chest hummed as Jaskier strutted towards his table. Jaskier plucked up a mug of ale from a passing server's tray without looking, so focused were those pretty blue eyes on his face. He sat back, thighs spread.

Jaskier halted next to the wooden pillar that flanked his table. Leaned sideways on it, grasping the full mug with both hands. Parted those luscious, red lips, and spoke with that divine voice.

"I love the way you just—sit in the corner and brood."

Geralt's eyes crinkled.

 _Gods_ , Jaskier was beyond exquisite in person and up close like this. All that pale, smooth skin, and those dark, thick curls like a silken pelt on that broad chest. Those long, strong limbs in glitter and leather. That ample bottom in knicker shorts.

Jaskier: a dream come true.

"I'm here to drink with someone," he replied, playing along with Jaskier, face impassive.

"Oh?"

"Hmmn. Someone—very beautiful." He dragged his scorching gaze down Jaskier's flushed face. "Very talented, and witty." His expression softened. "Thoughtful. Tender. Incomparable." He glanced down at Jaskier's lovely legs. "And knows how to walk in thigh high boots with six-inch heels."

Jaskier lowered his eyes. Shook his head once from side to side. Smiled that small, sweet smile Geralt reveled in repeatedly coaxing out of him.

"Well," Jaskier murmured. "How fortunate for me, that I perfectly fit the bill."

Jaskier raised his mug of ale along with one shapely eyebrow. He took measured steps to stand in front of the table, facing Geralt. Geralt adored the deliberate sway of hips. The flaunting of those thigh high boots.

Geralt still had those racy photos of Jaskier wearing them and nothing else. He also had photos of Jaskier wearing them while fucking himself with a dildo, or stroking his cock until he came.

"No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance. Except—for you."

Geralt set his expression into an impassive one again. He kept quiet. There was nothing he could do about his twinkling eyes.

Jaskier couldn't hide his own either. He set his mug on the table. Leaned down and propped himself on his hands. Arched his back in a sensual pose.

"Come on. You don’t want to keep a man in—lacy panties waiting."

Geralt's eyes widened. He glanced down at Jaskier's knicker shorts. He imagined those lacy panties underneath them, black and flowery. So easy to push aside or rip, so he could push his cock into Jaskier's heat.

He gazed up at Jaskier's flushed face again. He licked his lower lip. By Kreve, this man really was going to be the death of him.

Jaskier slipped onto the seat opposite Geralt's in a fluid motion. Geralt's breath hitched at feeling Jaskier's legs rub against his under the table.

Jaskier was—touching him. Jaskier was finally touching him, ensnaring his willing legs between those thigh high boots.

Jaskier was here.

Jaskier was really _here_ , with _him_.

His chest swelled with a sacred pain that transcended primitive pleasure. His throat constricted.

They leaned towards each other. Their hands were on the table top. In unison, like mirrored reflections, their hands slid across the burnished surface.

Geralt sucked in a sharp, short breath when their fingertips grazed. When Jaskier glided those slender fingers between his.

Their fingers slotted perfectly together, as if they'd been made for each other.

And perhaps—they were.

Perhaps they were always destined to be here, together, polar opposites of each other and yet reflections of each other. Perhaps _they_ were always destined, in every way.

Jaskier was staring at his face, into his amber eyes. He saw only reverence in those blue, kohl-lined eyes. He saw himself in them, and he saw a gorgeous god who had never needed the approval of others to exist, to be as he was.

He saw, at last.

He entwined their trembling fingers. Jaskier tightened those slender fingers around his. He felt their calluses born from years of playing string musical instruments. He was sure Jaskier could feel his calluses too, born from decades of hard labor.

Not all scars were ugly. Many were badges of courage. Of beauty.

"You must have some review for me," Jaskier rasped. "Three words or less."

Geralt could feel numerous eyes staring at them. He didn't care—and neither would he care about the photos of him and Jaskier holding hands that would spread through the internet in the coming weeks.

Jaskier wanted the people of the Continent to see them together. Jaskier was proud to be with him. Jaskier was proud of him.

He stroked Jaskier's warm skin with his thumb. Decades from now, he would hold Jaskier's hands just like this. Jaskier's hair would be white like his. Jaskier's skin would still be warm but also more frail, more precious. Jaskier would talk, roll those ever-bright eyes, sing about his white wolf. And he would love Jaskier just the same like he did now, with everything he had, the good and bad and all.

He let out a low growl.

It delighted him on an indescribable scale that Jaskier instantly understood his intention. With a joyous smile, Jaskier crossed the inches of distance between their faces in unison with him. Their noses brushed. Jaskier's breath singed him.

Then Jaskier's lips touched his.

He craved to pull Jaskier to him. To shove away the table and haul Jaskier onto his lap. Wrap his arms around that lean, lithe body. Run his fingers through that dark, medium-length hair, and kiss him, and kiss every moan and word of affection that spilled from those full lips.

But if he did, he would never stop. He would never withstand the miraculous glory of Jaskier loving him so much, loving him in return without reservation.

And _that_ was for no one's eyes, bodies, and hearts but their own.

The gentle press of their lips was no less devastating.

None of the photos, video calls, and fantasies compared to the reality of Jaskier in the flesh. He breathed in the precious air from Jaskier's lungs and mouth. He breathed in Jaskier's faint moan of bliss, into his surging blood, his vibrating cells.

He was alive. Alive and free.

It took him eons to reluctantly cleave his tingling, wet lips from Jaskier's. He drew back just enough to look Jaskier in heavy-lidded, lustrous eyes.

A review? Three words or less?

He tightened his fingers around Jaskier's. The tips of their noses brushed.

He knew what to say.

His hope-filled, stubborn heart that still believed in wishes coming true had known from the moment he'd laid wide eyes on that breathtaking photo of Jaskier's legs in those thigh high boots.

"Hello," he said, as another radiant smile bloomed across his face, "I'm yours."

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> A pair of Geralt's tiddies to whoever recognizes my silent tribute to one of the greatest rock stars of all time at the beginning of Jaskier's show, haha.
> 
> I _may_ write and post an additional scene to this story--namely, Geralt and Jaskier having torrid sex after leaving the venue and going to Geralt's apartment. 😈 I'll see what the response is like to the story!


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